Breathing Yesterday
by PennyOfTheWild
Summary: A collection of vignettes, drabbles, oneshots and random nostalgic moments, pre-to-post TLO and maybe beyond. Because I was going to start one of these someday. Multiple characters and pairings: may contain spoilers for Percy Jackson and the Olympians.
1. Breathless

**A/N:** Well, hello, faithful readers! *gets hit with rotten tomatoes* *teeters, falls* *gets up determinedly, covered in tomato juice and pulp* Alright, I deserved that. Gracious, I've been ... absent for nearly a whole Year. - that must be a record. Isn't it? I can't promise I won't ever go on hiatus again, but I can, and I will, promise I'll try my best not to.

I recently found out about Project PULL from Bronte (believeinthegods) who is just ... rockin', and I've decided I will join, and therefore hopefully continue to write regularly. -Also, I realized that I write more oneshots/drabbles, and so - to keep from overwhelming the fandom with my rubbish - I've started Breathing Yesterday. Bring on the - er - nauseatingly badly-written - nostalgia. Now: on to the story, before I smother you with my rambling!

**Dedication:** To you, because _every woman's heart is an ocean of secrets,_ and I hope you find peace within yours.

* * *

**Breathless**

_**'The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.'**_

**-Oscar Wilde**

Has she ever told you she once kissed Luke Castellan?

Of course she hasn't. She never will. You will suspect. You may already suspect. But you will never know for sure.

(_You will never know_) it was a dreamy September afternoon: one of those lazy Autumn days where Time seems to stop for a while –pauses, her rushed merry-go-round frenzy forgotten – and hangs over the edge of her wheel, to snatch an apple from Yggdrassil, and Summer indolence reigns for a little longer.

He was standing at the edge of the white picket fence that is now yours, his back against the peeling wood, a rare moment of peace, too, in his violent existence. She appeared from the direction of the Big House, a spring in her step (_that you will never know_), her hair mussed into a casual disarray, her cheeks flushed (_blowsy, your mother might've said_) from the wind.

(_You will never know_) his mouth corners curled up into a smile (_the kind you only saw once, and never again_) and her teeth flashed bright in a carefree grin; her arm came up and waved, once, twice – the energetic gesture of a blithe young woman life has not yet touched with sorrow. He smiled wider (_to himself, you might've said_), and crossed his arms and slid one ankle over the other in a quick, languid movement you, with your drive and your energy, can only dream of imitating.

(_You will never know_) she called "Hey!" as soon as she was sure he could hear her, a little breathless, and he told her, "Happy Birthday, Bethy!", his eyes bright. She came to him still smiling, but there was a little crease between her eyebrows when she said, "I'm twelve, today."

"Yes, I know, Bethy," he said, and reached out and ruffled her hair – and she ducked away, laughing.

"So you can stop calling me _Bethy _now." She hoisted herself onto the fence and sat leaning against the fence-post, one browned leg swinging back and forth, the other brought up against her chest. (_You will never know_) the sun crowned her queen, and the wind paid her homage, and her golden hair shone, her face aglow with intelligence and anticipation and the dreams only youth can have.

She is not a woman. Not yet.

But (_you will never know_) all that crossed his mind in that instant was that she was no longer a little girl, either.

"Alright," he said, "Happy Birthday, Annabeth." And he smiled at her – the special smile that was hers and hers alone – but today, there was a twinkle in his eye that she had never seen before.

(_And you will never know how her heart sped up under that smile and the color rushed to her cheeks, soft rose infusing the brown – and her eyelashes dropped over her smile, breathless_.)

(_And you will never know_) that he wondered: is this self-assured young woman the little girl who'd clung to his fingers so tightly? –and he'd reached out and taken her hand, softly, gently, as if to reassure himself that she _was_ still his Bethy, despite her protests otherwise.

(_You will never know how the touch of his hand on hers gave her butterflies, when it had been so natural before.)_

And she took her hand away and made a show of smoothing back her wind-tossed hair and he said, "Remember I used to tickle you breathless?"

She grinned. "I'm not ticklish anymore, you know."

"Are you entirely sure about that?" And his eyes narrowed mischievously and he reached out and _poked _that spot on her ribs and presently she gave up trying not to laugh and _screamed_ – and soon they were on the grass and she was desperately trying to avoid his (_long, able_) fingers, laughing, breathless.

(_And you will never know_) when they were _exhausted_ they lay side by side on their backs, his head turned towards the bright azure sky and hers turned toward his: her eyes roving (_hesitantly at first, you would have noticed_) over the (_lean, strong_) length of his form – and the sun _laughed_ down at them, and a bird twittered as it swooped up into the heavens.

"Do you remember? You used to be small enough for me to hold," he said. "I used to carry you around everywhere."

She blushed and turned her face away and contemplated the wide blue expanse above them and tried to ignore the fact that his hand was right _there_ –

"When you'd lift me," she said, "I'd put my arms around your neck and kiss your nose."

(_And you will never know how her breathing was erratic and her heart beat breathless_.)

- and then his hand found hers and he lifted her small fingers in his long ones, and little flowers of heat bloomed against her skin where his brushed hers. The afternoon sunlight shone translucent through their entwined hands and the warmth soothed her breathless.

(_You will never know how_) he said, "Yes, I do," easily, softly, "do you remember when you stopped?", and he turned his head glinting gold (_just like hers_) to look at her and she shrugged, as if it were a throwaway comment, a question of no importance,

"No," she said. "I suppose I just got older and stopped. I never thought about it."

"Annabeth."

(_You will never know that, when he said her name, she felt as though a shaft of sunlight had broken over her_.)

"Yes, Luke?"

He grinned at her, an easy open smile (_that you only saw once, and never again_). "One last time? For old time's sake?" And she laughed a little,

"Alright," and he held out his arms and pulled her close, and

(_You will never know_) she meant to lean forward and press a kiss to the tip of his nose but he tilted his chin and kissed her full on the mouth and then she was falling-falling-falling, (_completely breathless_), her arms around his neck and his hand behind the back of her head.

"I wanted to know what that felt like," he had said against her lips and she had smiled,

"Me too," and he'd put her away gently.

(_And you will never know how the sad-pained-haunted look on his face had knocked the breath back into her body_.)

His eyes studied her carefully (_as she had before_), as if he were trying to memorize her features, and then he'd pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood. In the distance, the horn sounded for dinner, a long low blast, because Time never truly stands still.

"C'mon, Princess," and she'd taken his hand and walked with him to the dining pavilion.

(_You will never know how she looked to catch his eye afterward and blushed, and her heart beat breathless_.)

(_You will never know, when he asked her if she had loved him, and she had said no, it had broken _her_ heart, and shattered what was left of his._)

(You will suspect. But you will never know for sure.)

* * *

**A/N:** Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL. Now ...drop us a line! A thought, a rant, a ramble, CC, whatever!


	2. Burning My Bridges

**A/N: **Well. This is quite possibly one of the _strangest_ things I have ever written. Warnings, then: may cause disorientation, nausea, paralysis, shock ... et cetera. You get the picture. Anyways. Pre-The Lightning Thief, inspired by Radical Face's '_Let The River In_'. I must stop and credit Bronte - that's believeinthegods - for introducing me to this band; I didn't know they existed before I read her '_glitter in the air_' oneshot '_ghosts_'. Yes, his music is inspiring. The opening and closing lyrics, then, belong solely to Radical Face - I have no claim to them.

I like to think of this as symbolic. You decide.

**Dedication:** To Erin (SisterGrimmErin). Happy Incredibly-Belated Birthday, dearest. _And thank you._**  


* * *

**

**Let The River In**

_(or, Burning My Bridges)_

'_**Bridges become frames for looking at the world around us.'**_

**-Bruce Jackson**

* * *

I closed my eyes and saw my father's sins  
They covered me like a second skin  
I peeled them off, and sure I bled a bit

_But now I'm free to sink my own damn ship_

* * *

You don't need to do this, I told you. But you - with your stubbornness and strength and pent-up anger and frustration – you went inside anyway.

You meant to tiptoe through the house like you always did: slip in and slip out like a ghost through the night. You've done this before, you told me, and I believed that this time would be no different. That like all the other times you slipped in and slipped out you'd flit through the window back again as if you'd never gone.

_And so I let you._

There was a light in the upstairs window and I remembered you said that at this time of night there never was anyone awake. She's by herself, you said. She'll be asleep. And I believed you and so I shut my eyes to the light in the window even though a persistent nagging feeling in my gut told me this time, you were wrong.

And so I waited by the window and you disappeared inside, wraithlike, and when you appeared again at the door – come in, you said – and I came in, because there was no reason not to. Not while you were there, your teeth blinding white against the darkness. Come in, you said.

_And so I did._

And we tiptoed into your kitchen and you sat us down – wait, you told us, I'll be right back – and so we sat, and I looked around the kitchen and watched the ghost of the child you had been dance on the peeling linoleum. Your white teeth flashed against the darkness – two incisors missing – and I ignored the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me to get you out of here while I still could.

We sat and listened to the sound of your laughter echo through the cavity of that kitchen: lovely golden ghostly laughter echoing through countless summers and then drifting away and disappearing entirely.

And then the lights flickered on, and - even though the house was still quiet – I could hear water thundering, like a river exploding against a dam – and the voice in my head told me to get _you out of here _as fast as I could before it was too late. But you hadn't come back and you'd told us to stay.

_And so I waited._

And the little ghost-child that had been you smiled sadly at me from its perch on the kitchen counter and I sat, tense and fidgety and impatient, because I knew you, and you'd never taken this long before. And all the while the roaring grew louder and louder and the voice harder to ignore –

-and then the shouting started. And so I tiptoed to the kitchen door and I saw – I saw her – her flyaway blond hair wispy and wild and a grin stretching her thin sallow face. _And her smile was just like yours._ Have a biscuit, dear, she said. You're going to be a while, she told me. Sit down. And she was humming as she entered the kitchen and bent by the little blonde girl sitting at the table and I looked past the door and I saw you standing in the middle of the living room.

And the pounding grew louder because you were shouting and you had said you wouldn't be long. I'll be right back, you said. We'll be in and out before you know it. And I believed you –

_-so I waited._

You were _angryexhaustedinpain _and you closed your eyes and burned all your bridges and you said you were going to leave and you would never look at the man opposite you ever again. I'm _free-free-free_ you said.

And behind me a little blonde girl sat at the kitchen table smiling at the ghost of the boy you had been. And a blonde woman with wispy flyaway hair bandaged her knee and laughed and offered her a cookie -

-and teeth flashed brightly against the darkness –

And all the while the river pounded and roared against my ears and told me to _get you out of there _before you were swept away entirely. But you said come what may –

_-so I waited._

And from across the room I caught your eye and yours flashed and I shuddered because I'm – I was – strong – but I felt like the river in your eyes would drown me entirely.

Let's go, I told you – shouted at you – and the man turned and I saw what you saw and the river caught up with me and clutched at me and I was swept into a frenzy of recklessness and daring.

And I burned my bridges and I told you I would leave with you. I'm _free-free-free_, I said –

-and behind me a little blonde boy smiled sadly and a little blonde girl stared, wide-eyed, at us and the wispy-haired woman finishing up the binding around her knee. Across the room you grinned a savage, broken grin and the house tumbled down about our ears and we were swept away over rapids downriver – hold on, you said, take my hand and hold on –

_-and so I did._

We – you and me and the little blonde girl – drifted down the river away from the dark house with lights blazing from all the windows and behind us the roof caved in as the water poured inside.

The ghost of the little boy you had been grinned once – teeth flashing against the dark – before we were swept away backward, a little golden head bobbing in white water.

(_And then we ran_.)

* * *

(So)

Let the river in  
If blood is thicker than water  
Then let the river in  
We might drift a ways, but we've got thick skin

_We might drift a ways, but we'll find our way again_

_

* * *

_

'_**I demolish my bridges behind me – then there is no choice but forward.'**_

**-Firdtjorf Nensen**

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**

**A/N: **Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL - check out her profile for more information. Leave a thought!**  
**


	3. Beliefs

**A/N:** Much as I would like to complain about my awful week, I won't, because we all know that that's not the reason author's notes were invented. Ah, well. I'm back, with more interesting/awful - whatever adjective you deem more suitable - prose! And, because this is something I seem to be overdoing with this series, I have neglected to mention character names once AGAIN. But fear not! Most of you got last time's protagonists (Thalia, Luke and Annabeth, pre-series), and I'm sure you'll do so this time too. *evil grin* ..also, ff .net seems to hate me, and won't let me format this to my liking *sniffs* - so you'll have to put up with all these ... lines. Anyways. I've said far too much already. On with the show!

**Dedication**: To Bronte (believeinthegods). You rock this world, sister. _Remain groovy always._

* * *

**Perceptions**

_(Or, 'Beliefs')_**  
**

_(what defines us? the way we look at the world, or the way the world looks at us?)_**  
**

**

* * *

**

**Part I – Self**

_(Or, 'Uniqueness')_

'_**We are what we imagine ourselves to be.'**_

_**-Kurt Vonnegut Jr.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Her greatest fear - the one she hasn't told anyone, mind you - is that she isn't - wasn't, an artist.

She is afraid she will wake up one day and the music will have left her fingertips and her paintings will have less inspiration than a child's formless scrawls.

If one day she opens her eyes to a world without color and the realization that everything she's ever _donecreatedlivedbreathed_ hasn't been art at all, she doesn't know what she's going to do with herself.

Because it's what's always defined her.

(Her skill with a paintbrush.)

(Her love of colors.)

(Her pen-pencil-creativity-spontaneity-uniqueness.)

She remembers the black-clad businessman - a friend of her father's - who'd looked at her work (the three-odd pictures her father had deemed appropriate for his drawing room) and said,

Your daughter has a unique way of looking at things.

- and she shudders. Because her art makes her unique.

And if one day she opens her eyes to a world without color, she will have to face the realization that she isn't unique anymore.

Nothing special.

Not an artist.

(_Not immortal_.)

(_Nothing_.)

* * *

(Her other greatest fear - which only he knows - is that the Oracle of Delphi is just a dream, and she has no place in the world. No Destiny.)

(_Because even the most unique of us need to feel like they belong_.)

* * *

She places the frame up on the table. (The frame that houses the picture that triggered memories-recollections-fears-spontaneity-uniqueness.) She smooths her paint-spattered skirt and pulls at the sleeves of her cardigan.

She turns toward her bed and sits on it, face turned expectantly at her door.

There is a rush of sunlight, and he comes in, blond hair glinting and blue eyes merry.

You ready, Raphael?

She smiles. I still can't believe you can do this.

(Time has softened her cynicism but is not completely lost.)

Hey, he says. Come on. You afraid?

And so she stands and takes his outstretched hand and her wrinkles fall away and her gray, flyaway hair turns a passionate, fiery red.

I'm (not afraid anymore).

* * *

**Part II – Others**

_(Or, 'Getting There')_

'_**If my mind can conceive it, and my heart can believe it, I know I can achieve it.' **_

_**-Jesse Jackson**_

_**

* * *

**_

In his free time - and he'd be mortified if anyone ever found out - he writes poetry. And not your typical '_I- am- emo- and- misunderstood- and- about- to- commit- suicide- because- no-one- loves- me_' verses, either; his inspirations are Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_, and every piece Edgar Allan Poe ever wrote, and William Wordsworth – mostly the 'Lucy poems'.

He knows he isn't very good (hence the mortification if anyone were to find out), but he takes (a great deal of) pleasure in knowing that this is something _normal _and _human_ and _alive_.

So he writes verses in the memory of his sister (among other things) and laughs and cries (because he's happy) and writes out '_Israfel_' in the best calligraphy his father's tutors can teach him (and then he frames the poem and puts it up on his wall and admires it as a job well done).

* * *

And – this is something you already know if you know him – he reads- reads- reads and sometimes he wonders what he would've said if someone had told him at fifteen:

You're going to be a great reader one day.

(_At seventeen, he might've believed them. At fifteen he was busy experimenting with motorcycles and black skinny jeans and hair cuts that obscured his eyes._)

(_He gave up when he realized he was doing what was expected of him._)

(_He gave up when he realized none of it did anything for him anyway._)

So –

He wears three-piece suits and hangs the coat over the back of the chair behind his desk in the lecture hall and talks about the finer points of Heany's translation of 'Beowulf', and drinks coffee (no – _with _sugar) in the mornings and watches Nat-Geo-Wild on Thursday afternoons.

Friday night is 'Family Night' and he joins his father and his stepmother and sometimes his … step-grandmother? … around the little round glass table in the verandah overlooking the Garden, because after suffering through years of sitting in awkward silence in the cavernous underground dining hall (how clichéd!) he's finally convinced his father that it's better this way. –and he always brings a bouquet of flowers for his stepmother and a thin leather-bound volume and insists on reading after dinner.

(_He knows he's getting there._)

(_It's slow going, obviously – but he's getting there._)

* * *

He goes over to his cousin's every once in a while. He'll bring toys for the kids and a new painting he'll have discovered (he's always discovering things) for his cousin's blonde gray-eyed, large-hearted wife. The kids love him: he's 'Uncle' and 'Mr. Funny-Guy' – and if you'd told him at thirteen someone would ever refer to him in those terms, he'd have looked at you balefully and called you crazy.

(But now he grins and lets them climb all over him and pretends to consider it when his (_staid,_) married cousin pokes fun at him and asks: When are _you_ giving up your bachelor's existence?)

(_And he grins – because he IS getting there._)

(_The first time he showed anyone his room – she was a daughter of Athena who'd discovered, through a mutual colleague, his obsession with Literature – he had the satisfaction of watching all the stereotypical ideas and pre-conceived notions people had fall to pieces: he'd thought her jaw might hit the floor._)

(_He'd watched as she took in the floor-to-ceiling polished mahogany bookcases lining the walls, the hardwood (parquet) floor, the bright light streaming in through the windows. There was – is - black, too, but it's tastefully and elegantly used, and he knows it isn't like anything she was anticipating._)

_("What did you expect?" he had grinned. "The Bat Cave?"_

"_Sort of," she'd said sheepishly, and he had _laughed_.)_

I'm (happy).

* * *

**A/N:** Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL - check out her profile for more information. Leave a thought!


	4. Being Brotherly

**A/N:** I could give you excuses. But that won't do, will it? - fellow PULL-ers, I will review your submissions ASAP, I promise. Anyway. This is my first time writing Hermes, so concrit would be incredibly welcome. This was written off a prompt from the incredibly lovely Neko Kuroban: "If you don't know what you want, you'll end up with a whole lot you don't."

**Dedication:** To Neko (Neko Kuroban). Happy belated Birthday. Thanks for everything.

* * *

**Wanting**

_(Or, 'Being Brotherly')_

'"_**If you don't know what you want," the doorman said, "you end up with a lot you don't."'**_

_**-Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, Chapter 5**_

_**

* * *

**_

It is one of those lazy summer nights where even the fireflies glow sleepily, bright golden lights blurred a hazy yellow, and cricket-song echoes dreamlike through the grass – when a soft breeze blows at periodic intervals, the slow, even breath of a sleeping Earth. When the stars twinkle merrily in a deep, cloudless sky -

– one of those lazy summer nights it would be a sin to work through, he thinks as he climbs the last flight of stairs and steps into a closed, carpeted corridor. The carpeting and wallpaper is reminiscent of a hotel – a luxurious, five-star hotel – but a hotel nonetheless. He shakes his head. Honestly. Even the doors are numbered – polished walnut, with gleaming brass handles and generic (but still flashy) numbers affixed in the middle. Three hundred and seven, three hundred and nine – three hundred and eleven. He reaches out, pushes the door handle downward and the door in.

"Hermes?" he leans forward, further into the (standard, one-bed hotel) room. Most of the chamber is in shadow – a mess of gray, indistinct furniture and objects, things thrown haphazardly over one another and the walls. His brother is sat at the desk in the only illuminated corner, a jumble of papers and books and files cluttering his immediate vicinity.

A desk-light burns (almost obscenely) bright, casting a pale orange glow over his tired, unshaven face. One long trousered leg is stretched out, (stockinged) heel against the floor, toes pointed upward – the other is bent at a strange, awkward angle, knee resting gracelessly against the desk-leg. His suit jacket has been flung carelessly onto the bed; his dress-shirt sleeves are rolled up, tie loosely slung around his neck, the collar unbuttoned. One hand is clutching a ballpoint pen – the fingers of the other are knotted in his dark hair. A cell phone – black with two miniature snakes twisted around the antenna, lies next to his arm.

"Hermes?" he repeats, louder this time, and his brother turns. His eyes are bloodshot and ringed with shadow.

"Apollo, what?"

"Doesn't anyone say hello around here anymore?" he complains, sauntering inside and settling himself on the bed, sweeping the jumble of books, papers, and the occasional piece of clothing (winged converse, the suit jacket, a rumpled shirt) onto the floor.

"Damn," Hermes says, without venom. "Now I've to pick that up."

"Oh, yes: because everything was so neat before," Apollo grins and stretches out on his side. "You look horrible."

"We don't all have time to go to a salon every day, you know." Hermes yawns, and the cell phone buzzes. "Excuse me." He flips the phone open with ink-spattered fingers, sets it to his ear. "Hello?" A tiny crease forms between his eyebrows as he listens to whatever is being said on the other end. "That's all been sent already," he says tersely. "And everything else is completely ready: I'm just waiting for Zeus's approval – and yes, I placed the order for Athena's new telescope yesterday. Honestly!" He disconnects the call, flings the cell phone down onto the desk (ignoring the snakes' squeak of protest), and rubs his temples. "I'm Olympus's scapegoat, I swear."

"I have a question," Apollo tells him. "Why've you transformed this entire floor into a hotel? Is it because you want remind yourself of the temporary-ness or whatever of this life or some such nonsense? Because I hate to break it to you, bro – but immortality is permanent."

"Maybe I wish it was temporary," is Hermes' (dismal) rejoinder, and he turns back to his accounts book.

"Hermes, you haven't slept in … forty-eight hours." Apollo ignores the pathos of the statement and plucks at the bedcovers with long pale fingers.

"Don't have time for sleep." He seems unaware of how much he sounds like a five-year old; if he does, he doesn't seem to care – eloquence can go to Hades, as far as he's concerned – at least for now.

Apollo sits up. "You need to take a break. Come on. You shouldn't be working: it's a lovely night."

"Tell Olympus that," Hermes says, as his cell phone beeps.

You have a new message, Martha informs him, her voice crisp. George is silent, still annoyed at having been thrown onto the desktop.

"I always have new messages," Hermes says. "None of them from people who actually like me." The last line is muttered, but loud enough for Apollo to know that Hermes wanted to be heard. He sighs inwardly. Time to turn on his inner therapist.

"Hey," he says. "That isn't true. I sent you a message just this morning."

"Hey, what's up bro, will you make sure I get my python-skin boots early tomorrow, thanks?" quotes Hermes sourly. "That's the one, right?"

"Shit," Apollo says, genuinely apologetic. "Sorry. You don't have to, you know." He reaches out, grasps his brother's shoulder in a(n) (inadequate, he feels) gesture of sympathy. Hermes twitches.

" 'S'alright," he says. "You'll get them." He turns a little and smiles over his shoulder, and Apollo rejoices, because it's a smile – a real smile – even if it is a little weary. "What in Hades do you want python-skin boots for anyway? You'll never wear them – you'd look ridiculous."

Apollo shrugs, a quick up-and-down movement of his (narrow) shoulders . "I just want them."

Hermes nods, letting out another ear-splitting yawn. "Okay." He surveys the wreck of the room, bleary-eyed. "If my mother ever saw this - "

His brother swings his legs over the side of the bed, setting his feet on the floor. "Okay. You're coming outside with me, right now." He stands, arms folded expectantly, and jerks his head towards the door. "Hermes."

"I have so much work to do. I don't have time for one of your stupid excursions."

Apollo bends, gathers up the things he'd swept onto the floor and re-deposits them on the bed. "I am mortally offended," he tells him, not sounding the least bit offended. He pulls the door open and gestures to the hallway. "You need to get out of this room. It's like … a morgue in here."

Hermes shoots him a glare, and resumes scribbling. The cell phone beeps twice and is accordingly ignored. George and Martha begin chasing each other around the phone's antenna. Apollo sighs.

"Come on out," he wheedles, leaning against the doorframe, voice soft and persuasive. "Just for a little bit."

"I can't. I'm busy."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pleease?"

"Apollo - "

"Pleeeaasee, Hermes?"

There is a slight thud as Hermes sets his pen down – hard – on the desk. "Apollo, for the love of Zeus. Fine. But only so that you'll shut up."

"You used to be more patient, once upon a time," Apollo observes as his brother stands, (stiffly) and slips his phone into his pocket. Hermes smiles again – wryly, this time. Resignedly.

"Honestly? That was before I started hanging out with you."

Apollo does not deign to reply to this, choosing instead to usher Hermes into the hall and pull the door shut behind them. The brothers descend the staircase, moving away from Hermes' topmost-story refuge to the lower levels of the Palace. It is quiet – strangely so, because there always is some sort of activity at the Palace of the Olympians, even in the dead of the night. Olympus never truly sleeps. Tonight, however, the very air inside is still. "Stuffy," is Apollo's comment, and Hermes agrees; when the doors swing shut, he lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

Outside, it is humid and sleepy, also – but that periodic refreshing breath of wind is welcomingly cool and sweet. A full moon hangs low in the sky, a glowing silver orb gleaming softly down from a clear, deep, blue-velvet expanse, and the stars glitter in their constellations, twinkling merrily. There is a little, winding cobblestone path that leads down into a valley-like depression behind the palace, ringed with eternally-young oak saplings. The grass is knee-high; a multitude of moon flowers and purple four o'clock blossoms are blooming, and the air is heavy with their fragrance. By the edge of the glade, a hyacinth plant blooms, the individual flowers of the inflorescence bathed in moonlight.

(Apollo tucks one of the blossoms into his shirt pocket.)

Hermes collapses (inelegantly), flattening several innocent grass strands in the process. "I haven't been here in … a while," he tells Apollo, who is settling himself gracefully onto the ground, mindful of creases and blameless plant life. He sits Indian-style, back against an oak tree.

"Please don't tell me you brought me here to talk about stars," Hermes continues, "because if you get started on Callisto – I will go to sleep. I promise."

"Brothers are supposed to be supportive," Apollo says petulantly, pulling a six-pack of Pepsi from behind a rose bush. "I've got the sugar."

Hermes sits up so fast he cricks his neck. "Zeus be praised. Where did you get that?"

Apollo grins. "Charming young lady she was, really. Incredibly light-fingered. I know your kids are good at … handling things, but she was better than most."

Hermes scowls and pops the top of a can. "I am not going to ask how old she was."

"Dude, you need to lighten up."

"You need to grow up."

"Hermes, that was lame."

"Says the King of All-That-Is-Lame-and-Cheesy."

Apollo gives a mock bow. "Thank you; I will consider that a compliment."

Hermes yawns. "Whatever makes you happy." His eyes drift shut; the Pepsi can stands, half-empty and forgotten, on the ground. "Honestly, if you want to talk about Callisto – I've heard it all before – but if you really want - "

"'S'okay," Apollo says, draining the last of his drink and crumpling the can, "seriously."

The back of Hermes' shirt is slick with sweat; his face, too, is damp, little beads of perspiration dotting his forehead, and his eyelashes are spiky with moisture.

"Are you coming down with a fever?" Apollo says, concerned. His brother runs his fingers through his hair. "No, it's the thrice-damned humidity." He raises himself on one elbow and looks up at Apollo. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Apollo avoids Hermes' probing look, raising his gaze to the heavens. "I have to hand it to Zoe Nightshade: she was one beautiful girl."

"Honestly."

"Actually," Apollo says, all traces of humor gone, "I was planning to – not exactly go 'big-brother' on you – but I wanted to make sure you're happy, you know?"

Hermes lets out another ear-splitting yawn. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "Of course I'm happy."

"Of course," Apollo says, sarcastically. "You're happy running people's errands and delivering messages and writing out memorandums and answering telephone calls -" at this moment, the cell phone in Hermes' pocket goes off.

"Excuse me," Hermes pulls it out; before he can answer, Apollo reaches over, plucks it from his fingers, disconnects the call and turns the phone off.

"It won't kill Hera to wait a couple of hours," he says reasonably, slipping the phone into his own pocket.

"That was Hera?" Hermes' eyes widen, "Give me the phone, Apollo, please? I don't have a death wish."

"Don't be ridiculous," says Apollo unfeelingly. "You can't die."

"You'd be surprised," Hermes mutters darkly. "Di immortales! She is going to kill me."

Apollo tosses the phone back at him. "Five minutes," he says. Hermes narrows his eyes at his brother, switches the cell phone on, gets to his feet and walks several meters away, deftly keying a number into the phone's keypad. He sets the cellphone to his right ear and stands with his back to Apollo; his shoulders are tense and hunched inward, his head bowed; the fingers of his other hand clutch his left ear.

A few moments elapse in relative silence, and then Hermes begins speaking in a low undertone; Apollo knows that if he tried to, he could hear every word his brother is saying; instead, however, he rests the back of his head against the tree trunk and waits for Hermes to finish.

"Damn it," Hermes says when he disconnects the call, "how is one being – even if that being happens to be immortal – supposed to keep track of Everything?" He stalks back to the oak tree and flings himself to the ground. Apollo winces as another dozen plants sacrifice themselves to the cause.

"You were saying?"

"You don't actually want any of this," Apollo says. It is not a question, but it might as well be.

Hermes doesn't answer.

"What do you want, Hermes?" Apollo persists.

A minute elapses before Hermes replies with a quiet, "I don't know." He turns his head away, avoiding Apollo's eye.

"Are you going to find out?"

"No." Hermes' tone is flat, final. He won't ask his brother to stop probing, but it's clear he is no longer comfortable with where this conversation is going.

"You don't know what you want, you'll get a whole lot of what you don't," Apollo says seriously, voicing aloud a fact both of them know – and have known – always. It doesn't hurt to state the obvious sometimes – brings it to the forefront, because even though you might know something, you may not always acknowledge it.

"Says the guy who's spent eternity in a seventeen-year-old's body," and with this slight, casual jest, Hermes brings down Apollo's cautiously pieced-together conversation. He turns and smiles at Apollo – and behind the calm, careful façade that is Hermes, Apollo sees the subtle warning.

Don't push me, or I'll crack.

He sighs inwardly, and gives in. "Whereas you, darling, are forever going through your midlife crisis."

Hermes laughs, grasps the proffered lifeline, "Twenty-eight isn't even close to middle-aged," he states, and his eyes drift shut again. "I'm awfully tired."

Apollo looks at his brother's face, mentally going over everything he'd been hoping to say – advice on standing up for himself, and finding a goal, and –

"You'll wake me up if something happens, won't you?" Hermes interrupts, and Apollo smiles, even though he knows Hermes can't see it.

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you."

* * *

It is much later before either of them will ever bring up this conversation again. On the eve of his son's funeral, Apollo finds Hermes in the little room off the Hall of Thrones, head bowed, standing vigil over Luke Castellan's body. His back is to the door, and he doesn't turn when Apollo enters.

"You want to know," Hermes says finally, his voice hoarse, "Why I didn't stop him." He raises his head and turns, to look at his brother. Apollo doesn't answer; he is right. Hermes bites his lip, looks up at the high, arched ceiling, blinking furiously. "He wouldn't have wanted it," he explains. "If he had known, he wouldn't have wanted – he would've wanted to follow his own path – he did want – I had to give him the right to make his own choices." His eyes peruse his son's features, still and calm – an innocent would have thought the boy was sleeping.

Hermes meets Apollo's gaze, a challenge in his. "You understand, don't you, Apollo?" his voice is almost pleading.

"It's what I want."

* * *

**A/N:** Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL - check out her profile for more information. Thank you for reading.


	5. Brevity

**A/N:** I'm back! With more horrible prose, as it were. -I wrote this at the spur of the moment; I'm lucky it's ready in time, really. Do forgive me for my numerous errors!

So. Because Monday is Valentine's Day, I want to do a Valentine's-Day-themed piece; as you will ultimately see, I didn't really succeed. This was also an attempt to write Percy - because I don't really write him - I can't (see how completely I fail? what sort of fanfic writer can't write a piece about the main character?) - and I wanted to practice. Concrit is always welcome!

Also, I wanted to thank you all for reading, reviewing and favoriting; I'm sorry my review replies have been sketchy of late - but I really, really appreciate every single review and favorite. So, once again, thank you.

One more thing: this was inspired by and written to Paramore's 'Only Exception'. A thousand thank yous to Erin for recommending it. 3

On to the fic!

**Dedication:** To you. Yes, you.

* * *

**Remembrances**

_(Or, 'Brevity')_

_**'Brief is life, but love is long.'**_

_**-Alfred Lord Tennyson**_

* * *

"Hello, Percy." Dr. Frederick Chase looked around the side of the front door at the green-eyed, black-haired teenager stood, in a tux and carrying a bouquet of flowers, on his doorstep.

"Evening, Dr. Chase," Percy answered, smiling easily. He looked slightly uncomfortable in the dress-pants-and-suit-jacket ensemble; Dr. Chase smiled inwardly. He knew how the younger man felt.

"Come on in," Dr. Chase opened the door wider, gesturing for Percy to enter, "Annabeth will be a while." Percy stepped over the threshold and followed Dr. Chase into the living room. He'd been at the Chases' often enough to feel –almost – at home. Dr. Chase settled into his favorite armchair, lifting the day's newspaper from where it lay on the coffee table and holding it up, obscuring his face from view.

Percy set the flowers down (narcissi. Annabeth's favorites.), sat, fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, and watched Dr. Chase not-read the newspaper; the older man hadn't flipped a page since he'd picked it up.

A moment later, Dr. Chase folded the paper up and put it aside.

"Dr. Chase?" Percy asked, concerned, "is something the matter?"

Annabeth's father sighed. "Not really," he said, "nothing really is the matter."

"Okay," Percy said dubiously.

"However," Frederick Chase removed his glasses, slowly and deliberately wiping them on his shirt, "there is something I wanted to talk to you about, Percy."

Percy swallowed. Here it comes, he thought. The inevitable. If he was honest with himself, he was surprised it took Dr. Chase this long to bring up this particular conversation.

Damn, I should've ditched the tux. But Annabeth would've killed me.

"Annabeth has put a lot of faith in you," her father said. "She's made quite a few exceptions for you."

"Yes, I know," Percy said.

"No, you don't, Percy," Dr. Chase corrected him. "Annabeth hasn't had the easiest time, growing up." He paused for a moment. "In hindsight, it's mostly my fault, I suppose."

Percy didn't say anything. In this case, neither contradicting nor agreeing would be diplomatic – and he didn't trust himself to try; he couldn't help feeling slightly resentful, too. Never mind he'd known Frederick Chase would attempt to talk to him about his daughter – never mind he'd been expecting him to – in the moment, it still hurt, a little.

After all this time, wasn't he trusted?

"It's not that I don't trust you," Dr. Chase said, and Percy looked up sharply. Annabeth's father regarded him with piercing, yet infinitely gentle, blue eyes. "But I know what a broken heart feels like."

Percy had a sudden mental flashback of cold, dark-haired, gray-eyed Athena, and wondered what it felt like to love a goddess.

(And then immediately berated himself: the girl he loved was better than any goddess.)

"I'm sorry," Percy said. He was; but the apology sounded futile – after all, what good is an apology?

Dr. Chase laughed. "There's nothing to be sorry about. It's in the past. But – what I want you to remember is this," he stopped again, a heartbeat of pauses, "it never stops hurting."

The words were said easily enough, almost cheerfully, but Percy understood.

"Thank you, Dr. Chase."

"You're welcome, Percy."

There was a rustle at the top of the stairs, and Annabeth appeared on the landing, arrayed in a knee-length, strapless indigo dress. Her blonde hair fell in loose curls over one sun-tanned shoulder, held up by a silver hairpiece. Normally, Percy would be the first to state, emphatically, that Annabeth looked gorgeous no matter what she was wearing, but he had to admit that, now, she looked particularly stunning.

"Dad, Percy," she grinned, stepping down the stairs, light and airy. She took in Dr. Chase's expression – solemn and slightly sorrowful, and her smile faded. "You guys weren't talking about anything too serious, were you?"

Frederick Chase plastered a smile on his face. "No, sweetie."

Annabeth raised a slender blond eyebrow, but did not press the point. "Alright," she said, and if she sounded slightly disbelieving, they pretended not to notice. Percy stood, presenting the narcissi with a sheepish, "Happy Valentine's Day, Wise Girl."

She stood on tiptoe, pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Same to you, Seaweed Brain." The narcissi were deftly placed in a vase – she'd take them to her room later – and then Percy followed her, slightly dazed, to the front door.

(Some things you never get used to.)

Dr. Frederick Chase stood in the foyer, hands in pockets, watching as Percy helped his daughter into her coat, a slightly melancholy look in his blue eyes, behind their glasses. Annabeth pulled the door open, her hands slightly fumbling with the lock, and preceded Percy down the steps to where Paul's Prius stood parked. Dr. Chase laid a detaining hand on Percy's shoulder.

"Percy," the older man said, "take care of my girl, okay?"

Percy smiled, a reassuring, promising, hope-full smile. "I will, Dr. Chase."

"Come on, Percy!" Annabeth called, "it's freezing!"

Percy hastened to the car, unlocking the passenger door and holding it open for her, like the gentleman he was.

He slid into the driver's seat, turned the key in the ignition, and the Prius rumbled to life.

Frederick Chase watched the car turn the corner of the street.

It was seven thirty in the evening, February 14, 2011.

* * *

Grass, frosty white, flattened underfoot where Percy stood, hands in jeans pockets, looking at the sun setting over the ocean. The breeze smote icy, frozen fingers against his numb, cold-reddened face. Percy closed his eyes against it, letting it play across his hair. He fancied he could hear her voice in the whisper of the wind.

(Because some things you never get used to.)

A face flashed in his mind's eye, blond-haired, gray-eyed Annabeth, close and yet so far away.

(So _this _is how it feels to love a goddess.)

"I'm sorry, Frederick," Percy mumbled. "I couldn't take care of her."

And then, "You were right. It never stops hurting."

He blinked away the tears that had insisted on forming, forced his eyes open, looked down at the headstone that bore her name in cold, unfeeling letters.

_Annabeth Chase-Jackson_

_July 23, 1993 – September 15, 2020_

"Daddy?" The little blonde girl lifted startling gray eyes (just like her mother's) to her father's face.

"Yes, Bethy?"

"I want Mommy to come back."

"So do I, Bethy. So do I."

He swung the girl up, up, into his arms – she rested her cheek against his – and slowly, they made their way back up the hill. Atop the rise, he looked back, his daughter's head nestled into the crook of his neck.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Wise Girl," he said softly.

It was seven-thirty in the evening, February 14, 2025.

* * *

**A/N:** I am so sorry. -I realize that was strange, melodramatic, and bordering on completely horrible. I am truly sorry. *grimaces slightly* Have a cookie?

This was completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL - check out her profile for more information. Thank you for reading, and leave a thought!


	6. Blackout

**A/N:** I apologize for my absence. Although my summer break technically started a while ago, my life does not seem to have realized that yet. However, I do hope to get everything under control soon. Look for me?

I am rather disappointed in myself of late: I don't seem to be able to write anything worthwhile. However, because today is the 'restart' of Project PULL, it was imperative that I uploaded something. I apologize for the quality of this.

**Dedication:** To my sister. Bless you.

* * *

**Silences**

_(Or, 'Blackout')_

**Silence is medication for sorrow. ~Arab Proverb**

* * *

Your relationship, you remember, has been defined by your silences.

You remember sitting around the campfire when you were children and on the run: remember setting your head on her knee and letting her run her fingers through your hair (no-one else has done this, and no-one else ever will). Neither of you would say a word; there would be no sound save her breathing and yours. Everything else was background noise: the light, rhythmic chirp of crickets singing their hearts out in the grass, the soft, slow sigh of the wind, the quiet rustle of grass blades swaying in the breeze.

Background noise; it didn't matter – not when you weren't listening.

You didn't have to listen when you already knew what was.

(Those were the easy, uncomplicated, silences.)

You remember shouting at her when she is stubborn – remember her cutting, scathing remarks when you do something utterly obtuse (because how can someone so brilliant be so stupid?). You remember the little girl who had somehow become your charge withdraw, wrapping spindly-thin-spider-child arms tightly around herself and squeezing her eyes shut as though this will drown out the sound of your arguing.

Nothing, and no-one, save that little girl, could (and can) make you feel guilt – you'd back down and apologize (but she knew when you didn't mean it), and call out the little girl and hold her close and tell her you were sorry (you always meant it) – you didn't want to scare her, and was she alright? – and you'd studiously ignore the slow-smoldering glares thrown in your direction.

You will ignore her and she will ignore you because sometimes words make things worse and it's better not to say anything.

(Those were the awkward, angry silences.)

You remember watching her fall into the hotel room, late – it is late, much too late, and you have been worried, dammit, does she know? She is tired and exhausted and hurt; the strain shows on her face and she ignores you and it makes you so angry. The little girl had already fallen asleep, a mop of golden curls barely visible over the edge of the comforter – and she walked over, pretending she can't see you fume – and adjused the blankets and kissed the pale, damp forehead and sank to the ground by the wall and drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead on them.

And slowly, slowly, you uncurled yourself and approached her, whisper-soft footfalls against the soiled carpet and you sank to the ground, too, and you wrapped your arms around her and held her close and rested your cheek on her hair (but you don't tell her everything is going to be alright, because you didn't believe that anymore).

The tension slowly left her body and she sighed, a soft, almost-contented breath and her forehead bumped into your collarbone.

(Those were the pained, hungry silences.)

When she screams at you atop the hill and tells you to take the little girl and run – run over the boundary line – she will hold the monsters at bay, you don't hear the words.

There is a rush in your ears and a loud, uncomfortable ache in your chest and it hurts – it drowns out all the sounds you know must be there – they have to be there – but you nod blindly and lift the little girl and pull the satyr clumsily along and you're slow – you're so slow – but you don't want to be because if you don't make it over that line then she will have been fighting in vain.

She tells you not to look back and while you've always listened to her (she's always right), this time you cannot help yourself and you turn your head over your shoulder – and her scream pierces you through and then dies just as suddenly as it began, because you can't hear anything anymore.

(That was an absolute silence.)

After an eternity – a lifetime of breaking promises and taking lives and going your separate ways – you are together again.

You are lying on the floor of the throne-room, your life-blood seeping through your clothes and your armor and staining the ground around you.

The little girl (but she really isn't little, any longer) is crouched on the floor next to you (and there's the black-haired boy, who, in the end, saved you, too) – but you don't really notice, because your eyes are fixed on _her _limping slowly forwards and her face is twisted in pain (and in this moment, you hate yourself more than you've ever hated yourself before). She bends slightly and gets down on her knees and her eyes find yours and you remember the first time you ever saw them (you'd never seen anything so blue) and her dark hair falls into her face and you reach out – slowly, painfully – and brush it back and tuck it behind her ear.

Her eyes swim and her face blurs and you fight it – you fight it because it's getting harder and harder to see her and it's been so long since you saw her like this – she catches your hand in hers and leans forward and for an infinite second your vision is filled with nothing but her face. Her lips part; you feel her breath (whisper-soft, like the wind) against your skin.

"I loved you once, you know," she says.

(And then there is silence.)

* * *

**A/N:** Written for Bookaholic's Project PULL. While you're here, friends, look up SisterGrimmErin's 'I Saw A Light' - it's a collaborative work she and I are working on together. Do leave a thought, and thanks for reading!


	7. Blighted

**A/N: **Warning: you may not like this. I won't apologize, if that's the case, and everyone's entitled to their opinion, but you have been warned. You may not like it. I ran a search for Sally-turning-Gabe-into-a-statue fic before I wrote this, and I realized that, despite the fact it has so much potential, it's very ... under appreciated.

But I shouldn't talk. The ever-lovely **SisterGrimmErin** looked over this for me. Have I mentioned I love that girl?

**Dedication:** To** The Fifth Champion.** Although I may never be able to write as well as you, I can aspire to. Thank you for the inspiration.

* * *

**(Not) Handsome**

_(Or, Blighted)_

**'"There's no way in this world for happiness to exist alone. …and so, like all bright things, it attracted destruction."'**

**Nancy Farmer, The Sea of Trolls**

* * *

He, too, had been handsome once, Sally mused, looking over at the figure of her husband seated (if the position could be called 'seated' at all) at the kitchen table, hunched over a deck of cards. Not in the conventional, Greek-hero-type way, but handsome nonetheless.

As if the weight of her musings was substantial, Gabe looked up, watery blue eyes narrowing. "You want something, Sally?" His words were slurred, his speech a mixture of Brooklyn-ese and dead-drunk. Sally mentally filed the description away: it might come in handy someday.

"No, dear," she said, her own voice noncommittal, and thought, a slow smile turning up the corners of her mouth, about the grease-paper-wrapped object sitting in the back of the freezer. "I don't want anything at all."

Gabe grunted. "Good."

It was a pity, Sally thought, gliding past him, her feet clad in their warm bedroom slippers almost noiseless against the spotless linoleum tiles. Truly a pity.

The freezer door opened with a slight squick and Sally, humming softly under her breath, reached into the back, her fingers closing around the large, round object settled, in a crust of ice, on the bottom shelf. It had been soft and slightly squashy when she had first put it in. Now it was frozen solid. Sally wondered if that would affect its efficacy.

Another small smile turned up the corners of her lips as she wondered, in an amused, detached fashion, if microwaving it would help it any.

Part of Sally – the part usually in control – was appalled at how calmly she removed the package and set it on the counter – was revolted at how she said, serenely, over her shoulder, "How do you feel about fried mackerel, dear?", but it was silenced, very severely, by the currently-dominant part which stated, emphatically, that it was time enough that someone with guts took over.

Not that Sally Jackson had ever been lacking in courage.

But really, it was a pity.

* * *

"You – you - don't seem to be the kind of girl who works in a place like this." The voice addressing her was nasal, awkward-sounding, but with an underlying curiosity, and this was what made Sally look up from the glass she was polishing. The man standing on the other side of the bar-counter was in his late twenties, with dark hair that had already begun to gray and the pale, almost pasty complexion of someone who had spent the better part of their life behind a desk in an office cubicle. He looked partly Italian, Sally noted distantly, but then, that was no novelty in New York City.

There was something unsettling about his appearance – nothing major, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was, just that something was off.

Between her irritation at his comment and the loud, blaring music from the overhead speakers, Sally was proud of herself for conjuring up a smile in spite of her pounding headache. "We all have to make a living," she responded. "How can I help you?"

It was later, while walking home towards the apartment she shared with two other girls and Percy, that Sally realized that there hadn't been anything wrong with her customer – not in the customary sense of 'wrong', anyway. She had been unsettled because his aura was one of the most mundane she had ever encountered: solid, with no trace of the mysterious or paranormal. She bent her head, tucking her hands deeper into her coat pockets. Her breath was misty-white in the cold January air, and Sally, thoughts of her son replacing those of the stranger, walked faster.

While frequent customers were not uncommon at Guidio's, most of the current regulars had been around since before Sally joined. However, the man with the unobtrusive aura soon made a point of coming in every Friday evening. He always ordered the same thing – a straight cocktail – never seconds, and sat on a bar-stool for the rest of the night, leaving just before Sally. A few Fridays later, she realized he would follow her with his eyes, and make it a point to exchange cursory greetings. She wouldn't have noticed, really, but Madge, the other barmaid, pointed it out, and after the first outraged 'Madge!', Sally found she didn't mind so much. He wasn't bad-looking by any means: apart from the early-graying hair and pasty complexion, his features were regular – straight nose, long-lashed eyes on the large side.

In truth, Sally thought, he was actually handsome.

Not in a conventional sense, no, but there was something _there_.

Men were not a huge part of Sally's life: Percy's father (Sally hardly ever referred to him by name, even in her head) had been her first, and when Percy came, all thoughts of socialization left. She was a young single mother with the dwindling remains of a dead uncle's inheritance and the dawning realization that she would have to provide, not only for herself, but for her son.

Rubbing a newly-washed glass dry and watching the stranger out of the corner of her eye, Sally wondered if it was time to remedy that. Perhaps this man, with his over-poweringly mortal essence, would be her – and her son's – saving grace.

She was twenty-four years old, and he really was handsome.

She set the glass down – it hit the wooden counter with a dull clink – and made her way over to where he sat, hands clasped around his empty drink.

"Are you sure you don't want anything else, Mr. - " Sally broke off, a questioning note in her voice.

He looked up, startled, a dull flush coloring his pale cheeks. "Um, I – I can't do that," he said, the words an awkward stutter. Sally raised a questioning eyebrow. Under her gaze, the flush deepened.

"Promise you won't laugh?" Sally was reminded of the middle-school boy she had tutored over the summer – when she was younger and had no responsibilities.

"I won't laugh," she promised, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

"It's Ugliano," he said. "Gabriel Ugliano. And, no, I don't need anything else."

"Alright, Mr. Ugliano," Sally said. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," he seemed more confident now that the subject of his name was no longer under scrutiny. "But -" he said, as she turned to walk away, " I – I mean, if it's okay with you – could I maybe walk you home today, Ms. Jackson?" The flush had reached his ears now, and a mental image of Poseidon, calm and collected, flashed into Sally's mind.

She put it away, smiling, focusing instead on how grateful she was that he had called her Ms. Jackson and not Sally, although both names were written on her nametag and, as a barmaid, it wouldn't have been abnormal for him to use her first name. "Of course, Mr. Ugliano. I'll just tell Mr. Guidio he won't have to send an escort with me today. And please, call me Sally."

* * *

In retrospect, Sally thinks, she should've listened to the alarm bells that went off in response to Gabriel's reaction to Percy.

_(His mouth had thinned, the normally quiet expression giving away to something almost ugly, but by this time she was in too deep and she knew that, no matter what happened, Gabriel was good for Percy because no monster in the world would ever smell her boy with Gabriel around.)_

In retrospect, Sally thinks, maybe they could've worked things out, if the curveballs life threw at them hadn't transformed Gabriel Ugliano into someone who bore no resemblance to the pale-faced, awkward young man who was the first person to walk her home since Percy was born.

* * *

"I wish you wouldn't drink so much," Sally's voice was pleading. "It's not good for you."

She knew his father had been an alcoholic: knew that he'd grown up in a house where a child was just as likely to receive a thrashing as a goodnight hug. He had told her as much two months into their acquaintance, and said he hoped he would never be like that. She said a man's word was his promise and she'd hold him to it, and smiled despite the sudden, powerful surge of fear.

_(Five years later, in the face of diminishing funds and mounting bills, the words, and the promise, might as well not exist.)_

"Are you gonna stop me, sweetheart?" The persona that appears when he is drunk is one that frightens Sally to her very core – she worries, not only for herself, but for her son, who is, more and more often, the subject and object of Gabriel's anger.

Eventually, Gabriel no longer needed the help of a wine bottle to bring out his own personal Mr. Hyde. Like the poison that had eroded Dr. Jekyll's kind, gentle demeanor, alcohol wore away Gabriel's patience and good humor, leaving behind a twisted, bitter fiend.

Some days, Sally thought him perfectly capable of committing murder.

Where he had once regarded her strength and resourcefulness as assets, agreeing unconditionally when she refused to call herself 'Mrs. Ugliano' ("If I'd the choice, I wouldn't be called it either.), he now touted them as being flaws, accused her of being rebellious, threatened to put Percy in an orphanage – and it was at these moments that Sally wished, whole-heartedly, that she had not married Gabriel Ugliano.

_(But she had needed to, for Percy's sake, and then, he had been handsome.)_

Percy was nine old and rapidly growing aware that his mother was not happy – that his stepfather grew increasingly monstrous every year – and that he did not have the security and safety that so many other children did.

And from there, everything went downhill.

* * *

And now, when Percy looks back, all he can remember of Gabe are drunken fits and compulsive gambling and how he used to hit Sally when Percy was not around.

Now, although his mother tells him that, in the early days, Gabriel hadn't been awful at all – quite the opposite – all Percy can remember is the balding, irate, over-weight man who had taken a belt to him on his ninth birthday because Percy had knocked over his poker table, landing a few vicious blows before his mother intervened – and he has no memory of being carried down the wharf on Gabe's shoulders when he was four and their world hadn't collapsed yet – before the mob jobs and the poker parties, before the three of them slipped into a whirpool where the only way out was down.

* * *

"Gabriel," Sally's voice was soft, and although, over the eight years they have been married she always addressed him with respect, this was the first time in a long time she had spoken to him like _that_.

Gabe looked up, surprised, hand still clutching the ace of hearts, and took in the sight of his wife, smiling gently as always, clad in a blouse and the straight skirt she was so fond of, holding a severed head at waist-level, just in front of his face.

"Gabriel," Sally said. "Thank you."

It was a pity, Sally thought, as she set the head back in its package and walked, consideringly, around the figure of her husband.

He really had been handsome.

* * *

**A/N:** Completed for Bookaholic711's Project PULL. You can find the link to the community on my profile page or hers. Leave a thought!


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